


Episode 33: The Toch'akjah

by PitoyaPTx



Series: Clan Meso'a [33]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Clan Meso'a, Gen, Mandalorian Clans, Mandalorian Culture, Mandalorians - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 20:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20747927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitoyaPTx/pseuds/PitoyaPTx
Summary: "How much longer do we have to wait? To suffer?" ~unknown Meso'a warriorThe tribal leaders and their people descend on the capital to seek answers from their Alor





	Episode 33: The Toch'akjah

**Author's Note:**

> There is SO much Soah-ra in this next four episodes so beside the dialogue/phrases there are parenthetical translations. I may change them to footnotes in the future, but I'm too sick to focus on formatting right now.  
A few quick notes:  
-Akjah is the Soah-ra term for Alor  
-Tat = Father  
-Mot = Mother  
-calling a living Alor "honored leader" is an insult because that term is reserved for the honored dead (or the retired in the event that they are alive but have stepped down).

The pale white lights of Teno’kaan streaked across the water past the north gateway arch towering above the procession like an agape mouth accepting a bitter kiss. The thirty-foot tall stone Jiiya flanking the bridge on either side ignored the warriors passing between them, their eyes eternally fixed on the high relief carvings of Nagut decorating the top of the arch. For some, passing beneath the arches was like a boost of energy for their weary bodies. For others, a reminder of a distant past when Teno’kaan was first constructed. She was the Clan’s central stronghold, the last stand for the ancestral Mandalorians clinging to Clan life when all else failed them, when the world crashed around them, when Fiyn perished, and Ellirva left them. She towered above the black lake like a beacon of strength or a creature waiting to spread its gnarled, cracked claws out across the plains to gobble up those who would dare stand against her. Both depictions of the capital were apt in this instance, for it was overcast and raining lightly.  
By the time they reached the black shores they’d walked for a week, stopping only to rest a few hours each day and continuing once the majority of the group was on their feet. Most children were carried either by their parents, an older sibling, or their Ver’gebuir. Food was shared from group to group, sometimes provided by Maak’ux circling the area. The tears had all dried up, replaced by a determination painting their faces the same grim shade of nothing. The roads were packed, but the crowds parted accommodatingly to the newcomers. The stones of her streets scraped underfoot as the clawed feet of her occupants shuffled by. The whole city felt as though it was holding its breath. Dimly lit windows peered down into the streets like prying eyes viewing something they shouldn’t. After all, grief was personal. Everyone was aware of, but many did not know the departed. The death of a Raider offworld was hardly the cause for a pilgrimage to the capital. The fact that so many came so quickly meant there was more to it than a gunfight at a bar or a malfunctioning jetpack. No, something was wrong, very wrong. They could hear it in the heavy breathing rumbling through the newcomers like a muffled battlecry. They could see it in the clenched jaws, tightly wound fists, and heavy eyed children groggy from waking up on the outskirts of the city. Pauldrons thudded against one another, Jiiya teeth scraped against breastplates, and capes caught the morning breeze in dark sheets casting undulating shadows on the grey cobblestone pathways between homes and trade pavilions.  
Warriors in full kit passed their brethren watching from the alleys and rooftops. Some glanced upwards and around, catching their kin staring back as if waiting for them to speak, to tell them what had happened. Their unspoken conversations carried on as the group progressed from the gates to the inner sanctum of the city, centered around a stone well watched over by Axa, Dedera, Tiguur, and Greta. Axa, Vin’Chibala, faced the East, her bald head ringed with a wreath of stone flowers that grow after a summer’s fire. Her eldest daughter, Tiguur, faced the West, her long locks concealing seaglass, seashells, and crustaceans from the tidal pools. Dedera, two years Tiguur’s junior, surveyed the South with her hair tied back and a Chochoma pup cradled against her chest. Seated with a helmet between her feet, one hand over her heart and the other extended in greeting, was a north-facing Greta. She was smiling warmly, a harsh juxtaposition to her descendents passing by her. Her gaze was high so most who passed could meet it. She was always smiling as if she’d just spotted someone she was looking for. Whom that person was mattered little to the citizens of Teno’kaan. It was nice to feel like someone was looking for you.  
Beyond the well to the East was an archway flanked by four foot tall Jiiya seated beside the stone likenesses of Ponv and Loran Beroya. Today, Ponv had a string of vibrantly red berries around her neck that hadn’t been picked at by stray Chochoma yet; Loran was similarly decorated. Both stood facing one another beneath the arch on either side of the road, resolute and stern faced as always. Most stories of the couple involved feats of bravery in the face of Enad who refused to follow the lead of the Crusaders. It’s said that Loran carried two elders up a mountain before their family was willing to listen to anything they said. Ponv fought a Jiiya with nothing but her fists and a stone she’d picked up. How old the Jiiya was varies depending on who’s telling the story, but the fact remains that no one questioned her after that victory. While some visited the well to pay respects to Greta or enjoy a peaceful picnic, others (children specifically), came to the well to stand beside Ponv or Loran and mark their height in chalk on their arms. As the procession passed, a few kex’ika ran up and put their backs to Ponv’s side before being called back by their caretakers.  
Beyond the archway, the homes and shops stopped abruptly at the edge of a grassy courtyard broken up into nine sections by criss crossing stone paths. The central path, cracked and worn from centuries of foot traffic, brought the procession all the way to the foot of a pyramidal structure, the Toch'akjah, consisting of nine tiered levels topped with a stone gazebo housing five stone chairs set around a stone table. The first tier, the black tier, is Nux’tahast, the Old Blood; the second tier, the yellow tier, is Yaa’Jiiya, the First Jiiya; the third through sixth levels, the orange levels, are Nuk’nuul (the Great Dunuul), Nuk’larac (the Great Xalaraac), Nuk’nagut (the Great Nagut), and Nuk’oma (the Great Chochoma) respectively; the seventh tier, the red tier, is Nux’kaan, the Old War; the eighth tier, the blue tier, is the Pol’xul, the Spirit Bringer; and the ninth tier, the teal level, is Tat’Kad, the Father Kad. Nearing the top, at the foot of the eighth tier stands Guit Bralor, her back against a stone pillar holding up the Ka’kex, the Warrior Fire: an eternal flame that’s said to have been burning uninterrupted for six generations. Guit was a woman of few words, sharing in Greta’s loss of her comrades and only brother to the ancestral Meso’a. Stories about her recount her wisdom and empathy for those who needed comfort as well as her love for life often dimmed by the pain of grief. Though a statue of Greta was commissioned for the top of the pyramid, the spot went to the Trandoshan and her ever burning ka’kex. Each tier is ten feet tall and six feet deep on all sides; the structure houses the Alor and their family, the Rachi, several guard squadrons, and the Alor’s pet Jiiya passed down from Alor to Alor. At the moment, the seventy-year old beast was elsewhere in the compound, probably napping or being pampered by Garuntha’s granddaughters.  
If you weren’t strong enough to reach the third tier, there was no reason to come to the Toch'akjah as it is widely considered bad luck to linger on the first or second tier. The first because it depicts the forked tongue demoness, Rahast, who would have plunged Meso’kaan into eternal darkness if it satisfied her bloodlust. The second because staring too long into the eyes of Jiiya is said to cause violent madness. For the young and elderly alike, studying the beautifully polished mosaics of the Dunuul, Xalaraac, Nagut, and Chochoma was far more comforting and quite frankly more entertaining. If the clouds parted at all during their wait, the glass tiles would sparkle brilliantly, grabbing the attention of any fidgeting toddler or artistic kex’ika. At least, their charges hoped so.  
Up they went in rows of five, leaving behind their elders with toddlers and Ver’gebuir with kex’ika. Most stopped at tier three, but some children wanted to play on the tier that represented their home tribe. It took a lot of shuffling to separate the group staying from those carrying on, but they managed with the help of the Ver’gebuir and the few Maak’ux who’d followed along with their own children. Without stopping, the trip to the top takes about fifteen minutes if you keep pace and don’t bump your neighbor or sneeze too enthusiastically. Warmth passed across the assembly as they reached the top and gathered around the eternal flame, kneeling with their faces upturned towards the deus where their Alor ascended to meet Garuntha, Alor Haria’n, and her attendants. Dedel, Alor of the Storm Harpies, led the group followed by Xotolicue of the Winged Serpents, Van’idal of the Drowned Suns, and Koucitesh of the Brood of Tusks.  
Garuntha, nearing one hundred years old, watched the procession from the moment they came into view on the far side of the well. Her eldest children, Hunzar aged fourty-five and Toshen aged fifty-two, stood on either side between her and her attendants Terran, a human male of standard height and athletic build, and Versh’vet, a male Chagrian of equal height save for his horns. They’d arrived back at the Toch'akjah six days prior, having traveled via shuttle instead of on foot. Though within his rights as a son of the Alor, Van’idal remained with his tribesmen in the procession. His sand-colored face was rosy red from the trek, but he was not a day over thirty and enjoyed walking over mechanized travel.  
“Ner’ad,” Garuntha nodded to him. He raised his chin but remained where he was beside his peers, noticing Dedel’s back stiffening at their familiarity. Though not nearly as old as Garuntha, Dedel and his many children had always been her greatest opposition. From challenging her ignorance when it came to the implications of Raiders having children with outsiders or her unwillingness to investigate how Clan Vizla was able to track down a Meso’a monitored frequency in order to deliver the bodies of three out of four missing Raiders-  
“Ra’ta, ori’vod,” Garuntha addressed him, tapping the ground with the butt of her spear, “Puk al’soah.” (“Speak to me, friend. Your heart is heavy with words.”)  
“Su cuy’gar,” he responded politely, crossing one arm behind his back and raising his chin, “Le, ta’puk al’soah.” (“Greetings. Yes, my heart is heavy with words.”)  
She narrowed her eyes and shifted her weight from left to right, her shoulders tense, “Pixo, vod?” (“Now, brother?”)  
He nodded as Koucitesh and Xotolicue came to his side, leaving Van’idal behind them wringing his staff between his hands.  
“Pixo, tir’ven, Vin’alor.” Dedel confirmed, raising himself to his full height. (“Now, not later, honored leader.”)  
A commotion behind them grabbed Garuntha’s attention. Pushing between the throngs of warriors was a young Mirialan with short cropped hair and wearing Chibala robes. In one hand was her pollarm, the other a holodisc. Dedel stepped aside and allowed her to pass between himself and Xotolicue. She raised her chin to Garuntha, set the disc down on the ground at their feet, and powered it on. When she straightened up, she crossed her arms behind her back and stepped away from it. A cone of blue light passed around the group on the deus and it beeped. Around the city, screens broadcasting local news or spaceport departure times changed to the scene atop the Toch’akjah. Most notably, the grim face of their Alor as understanding spread across her features.  
“Miit’jorur?” Xotolicue leaned forward and whispered to the Chibala. (“Messenger?”)  
She nodded almost imperceptibly, but said nothing, standing still as a statue.  
Garuntha’s mouth curled into a snarl, digging deep creases into the corners of her mouth.  
“Vin’alor?” she spat, “Tir’pixo tir’ven!.” (“Honored leader? Not now, not ever!”)  
Dedel noticed both Terran and Versh’vet widen their stances but said nothing. Instead he sighed and returned his gaze to her fiery countenance.  
“Kime, ra’til’ka, na ven’ra,” he replied calmly. (“Death, the grave will come for you.”)  
“We’ne, pixo tir’kime,” she growled. (“Sleep, but now not death.”)  
“Me’copaani?” snapped Hunzar, dropping pretense and cutting the air with his hand. (“What do you want?”)  
Several of the warriors below looked to one another, startled that he would step between them; a few began to murmur to their neighbors.  
“Tion’jor olar?” Hunzar continued, “Ra-” (“Why have you come? You-”)  
“K’uur, Hunzar!” his sister hissed, stamping the stone platform with her staff. (“Quiet, Hunzar!”)  
Van’idal jumped slightly, but caught himself and peered over his shoulder. To his mortification, several warriors-many from his clan-were no longer kneeling. In fact, some had gotten to their feet and were moving around the platform to get a better look at their Alor. Garuntha snorted, handing her staff off to Terran and crossing her arms arrogantly against her teal breastplate.  
“Pixo, Dedel?” she asked nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders back so her sternum let out a hollow pop. (“Now, Dedel?”)  
Dedel smiled in a mildly condescending manner, “Tir, vod, tir’ta.” (“No, sister, not I.”)  
“Oh?” she said, matching his smug demeanor with her own, “Tir’ra?” (“Not you?”)  
He nodded. The corner of her mouth twitched but she did not falter as she turned to Koucitesh. The young human, a mane of black hair coiled around her jawline and jade spools, wasn’t looking up at her Alor. She wasn’t looking at anyone, in fact her face was so blank Garuntha wasn’t sure if she was paying attention.  
“Ner’ad, ra’na,” the Zabrak moved before her. (“Daughter, tell me.”)  
Koucitesh slowly looked up at her and shook her head. Garuntha’s smile flattened into more of a grimace as out of the corner of her eye she saw the thing she’d begun to fear. Van’idal, quivering as he motioned behind to his attendants to join him, pushed past Xotolicue and stood before his mother.  
“Mot,” his voice shook. He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, trying to ignore his siblings shooting daggers at him, “Garuntha, Alor Haria’n,” he said, straightening up and speaking as loudly as he could, “Jiiya we’ne, ade na’kime. Mot-” (“Mother, Garuntha Alor Haria’n, the Jiiya who sleeps by his children dies. Mother-”)  
“Tir!” Garuntha shrieked, tearing her staff away from Terran and spinning it haphazardly over her head. (“No!”)  
“Mot!” Toshen cried, rushing forward only to be stopped by Xotolicue.  
The Nautolan, dark as soot with lava-red markings, held her back. His grip on her arm so firm her fingers grew numb, but all she could do was scream as her mother’s spear passed straight through her brother’s ankle.


End file.
